


Extremely Armed and Mildly Competent

by shebebutlittle (thatvagabond)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A lot of explicit language, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6759844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatvagabond/pseuds/shebebutlittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake, soldier turned career-criminal with a chip in his shoulder and a sister to provide for, hasn't exactly had a life full of sunshine and roses.  Running into another pair of bank robbers, one of them hot, blonde, and irritating as fuck, still makes for a pretty bad day though. And then it gets worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extremely Armed and Mildly Competent

**Author's Note:**

> No promises on this going anywhere.

Bellamy’s first thought is “What the actual fuck?” Because someone has to have tipped off the cops, and he’s willing to bet it was Murphy. The bastard, never should have trusted the smug little asshole after that shitfest in Reno.

 

His second thought is that the tiny blonde pointing a gun in his face doesn’t really look like a cop. 

 

Coincidentally, Bellamy’s third thought is also “What the actual fuck?”

 

“What exactly,” she says calmly, gun never wavering from where it’s being pointed  _ right in his fucking face _ , “Do you think you’re doing?”

 

Behind her, a Hispanic chick has another gun trained on the teller, out of the corner of his eye he can see Miller aim at her. And then, because his life is apparently a fucking joke without a punch line, he flicks the safety off the piece he has pointed at the blonde. Who responds in kind. Bellamy is starting to wonder whether or not he should have even bothered to get out of bed this morning.

 

“Well Princess, I’m standing in the lobby of a bank with a gun, I’m sure you can put the pieces together.” And if he sounds a little bit spiteful, who can really blame him.

 

The Princess is in fact capable of putting one and one together, judging by the flash in her eye and the way her jaw grinds together in a way that looks physically painful.

 

“Well,  _ asshole _ , I’d think you were trying to rob a bank, except that can’t be it, because  _ I am already robbing it _ .”

 

And there's the punch line.

 

“What is this, kindergarten? You’re gonna have to come up with a better  argument than finders keepers here.” And okay, Bellamy is the man with the plan, and though his current position doesn’t grant him a view of his watch, his internal clock is sufficient to tell him that he’s running out of time before the actual cops show up. And you know, arrest him. Which is probably the only way this clusterfuck could actually get worse. 

 

“How about, fuck off before I shoot you in the head?” She says sweetly. Except that. Being shot in the head would probably be worse.

 

“How about run home to your Daddy while the professionals do their job.” He replies, frustration creating a pounding headache. And okay, that might have been a little low, and probably sexist. But he’s got a schedule to keep and she’s literally standing in his way.

 

The girl, woman he supposes, wow he’s glad O isn’t here to read his mind because she’d kick his ass, takes a sharp breath through her nose.

 

“I know you’re some sort of career criminal, with dubious morality and what not, but there’s a line, and misogynistic shit like that is exactly it.”

 

“Slay, bitch, slay.” The Hispanic chick, shit no,   _ woman _ by the teller says.

 

“You’re pointing a gun in my face, and  _ I’m _ the one with dubious moral character, really?” And yeah, Bellamy’s a little indignant, because, seriously?

 

“You are joking, aren’t you? Because that is by far the most hypocritical statement I have ever heard, and my mother is a  _ republican _ . ”

 

“She's not wrong man, your gun is also pointed at her face.” Miller points out reasonably, the Hispanic woman snorts in the background. Sometimes Bellamy wonders about his life choices, it probably says a lot about his life that this  _ ridiculous  _ situation is not one of those times.

 

“Fine, I have dubious moral character. But for the record,” Bellamy stresses, “your moral character is at this point in our interaction, equally fucking dubious.”

 

“Morally dubious?” The teller squeaks, hands still behind his head, “you’re holding each other, and an innocent bystander, I might add, at fucking  _ gunpoint _ , and you’re going with morally dubious?”

 

The Hispanic woman’s eyes flick to the teller's name tag,

 

“Greg,” she says calmly.

 

“Yeah?” He squeaks.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Greg shuts up.

 

“Alright Princess, I get it, we both have the same goal in mind here, and really shit timing. But I sort of have a deadline I need this cash for, so maybe, I can finish up here and you can come back another day.”

 

“Or,” the blonde replies, “you can stop calling me Princess, go find another bank to rob, and leave us to it.”

 

“Or,” the teller suggests, “no one could rob the bank and you could all leave me alone.”

 

At once, the three of them who aren’t already aiming at him, round on him, pistols aimed at his head. Shooting Greg would probably make Bellamy feel better. But no matter what the blonde thinks, he’s not a bad guy. 

 

Well. Not a murderer anyway.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Greg” Bellamy shouts instead, at the same time as the blonde. Who he is no longer pointing a gun at. Huh. He can see her ass from this new angle. He can’t say he disagrees with that development.

 

“Dios Mío,” the Hispanic woman growls “Pretty boy, stop staring at my partner's ass and go check out the vault. Griffin, stop flirting and do your damn job. Jesus Christ I’m surrounded by idiots.

 

“Shut it, Reyes," says the blonde, Clarke.

 

“Pretty boy?” Bellamy asks, “Pretty boy?”

 

Reyes ignores him. “You, competent one,” she says, nodding at Miller, “come here and tie Greg up will you.”

 

“So you’re giving orders now?” Bellamy asks. 

 

“Shut it, Pretty boy.” Miller responds, and Bellamy can here the smug amusement in his voice even if his face is as professional as always as he locks Greg's hands together with zip-ties and knots the teller's own tie around his mouth. 

 

He needs a new crew.

 

And then, just to be contrary he’s sure, Murphy shows up. In the bank. As in not in the van being the getaway driver he was hired to be.

 

“You better have a damn good reason here Murphy.”

 

“Who’re they,” the man asks instead of answering, his hand wavering by the pistol at his hip, because why would Murphy ever do anything as helpful as answering an implicit fucking question. 

 

“No one important. You know what is important? You explaining to me why the fuck you’re not in the van.”

 

“We’ve got a problem.”

 

“Other than the fact that my get away driver is not currently in the getaway vehicle?”

 

Murphy glances as the blonde. Who looks back at Bellamy, eyebrow raised as if judging his lack of leadership ability. Whatever. He’d like to see her deal with the motherfucking morons he does. 

 

“Spill it Murphy, we have a schedule to keep.”

 

“Actually,” Griffin says, “ _ We _ have a schedule to keep.”

 

“Actually, you have an appointment far, far away from me.” Bellamy answers, eyes never leaving Murphy’s.

 

“Todos de ustedes son puta stupidos,” Reyes mutters. And Bellamy might not be a Spanish language expert, but even he can pick that one up.

 

“I have to check the vault now Murphy,” Bellamy says, slowly this time, as if speaking to a child,  in the hopes that the need for a sense of urgency when  _ robbing a bank _ will get through his thick fucking skull,  “so spit it out.”

 

“There are some of us,” he starts, snarling slightly, “that are starting to get tired of your fucking tyrant act.”

 

Miller, still standing over by Reyes, goes stiff. 

 

“That’s great Murphy, really. I appreciate your deep integrity and dedication to democracy. Can we talk about this when we’re not in the middle of robbing a bank?”

 

Miller starts heading over, moving to Bellamy’s side. Left hand never leaving his gun.

 

Griffin, who’d turned back to the security tapes after deeming her working relationships superior to his (he assumes, her eyebrow raising felt both superior and condescending), is watching again. A small frown disrupting her features, which is disgustingly cute on such an irritating individual. Even Reyes is paying attention, poised as if ready to get the hell out of dodge if this all goes to pot.

 

Which, obviously, it does.

 

“Here’s the thing, Blake,” Murphy continues, “you’re not actually in the middle of robbing a bank. You’re at the end of your life.” Then, before Bellamy can do much more than blink and wonder when Murphy turned into such a pretentious asshole, the traitorous fucker pulls his pistol out and shoots.

 

Miller saves Bellamy’s life. Leaping forward to tackle Murphy around the knees. Instead, of the bullet hitting Bellamy between the eyes, it ricochets off the one of the ostentatious columns lining the lobby.

 

For a minute, Bellamy thinks that’s the end of it, Miller pinning Murphy on the floor and his own life unended. The sound of Reye’s hitting the ground changes his mind. The bullet having lodged itself in her knee.

 

Greg makes a slightly whimpering noise from behind his gag.  He appears to be praying. Opium of the fucking masses if you ask Bellamy. Or Marx he supposes, but Marx is the original commie bastard and Bellamy is such a fuck up he can’t even rob a bank properly, so it’s not like anyone is queuing up to dissect his religious philosophy. And. 

 

And there’s a girl on the ground with a bullet in her knee. Blood spreading around her leg like coffee from a tipped over mug. The police are on their way. He hasn’t  _ robbed  _ the bank yet, never mind the fact that out of all the banks, in all the towns, in all the world, modern day Bonnie Parker had decided to wander into his. And O’s tuition is still due in twelve hours. 

 

Bellamy might be too good a person to shoot an innocent bystander, but he’s had a really bad day that’s only going to get worse and it’s barely noon. There’s not a jury in fucking country that would dispute the fact that Murphy has it coming. Tyranny. Honestly, the bastard doesn’t even  _ vote _ . 

 

Shooting Murphy would definitely make Bellamy feel better. 

 

“Miller,” Bellamy says calmly, “I am going to buy you a beer for that stunt. But first I need you to get out of my line of fire.”

 

He has his gun pointed to the tangle of limbs his right hand man and the backstabbing son of a bitch make on the floor. His arm forms a straight line, unwavering. Body angled to deal with the recoil. Text book perfect like they taught him in the army before it all went to shit. And hey, his life might be in complete shambles, but he’s still a damn good shot.

 

Miller. Miller who wanted to leave with him when they dishonorably discharged him. Miller who never doubted him for a second. Miller who got tangled up in all of this on Bellamy’s word and Bellamy’s word alone. Miller who had just saved his life. Doesn’t move. Keeps his knee on Murphy's gut and his forearm over his throat.

 

“Don’t do something stupid, Blake,” he says lowly. 

 

“Pretty sure this is the best decision I’ve made all day,” Bellamy answers, finger resting just off the trigger.

 

“You decided to rob a bank today,” a pained voice groans from behind him, “not sure if you should have a lot of confidence in your decision making skills.”

 

Bellamy nearly drops the gun. It’s Reyes, propped up on her elbow while Griffin does something complicated looking to her knee using her shirt and a lot of knots. There’s blood all over the blonde’s hands, up to her elbows, and it’s staining the white of her tank top so she looks a little like a third grader doing an art project. 

 

“You also decided to rob a bank,” Griffin says, pulling tight on the remains of her shirt while Reyes swears in Spanish, “you stupid, stupid girl.”

 

Then. Because Bellamy’s life is a complete mess all the time but especially right now, he hears sirens. Faintly. But he hears them,

 

“Fuck,” Miller breathes, eyes tightening under his beanie.

 

Fuck is exactly right.

 

Murphy struggles to laugh around the pressure one his throat and says, “You’ll fit right in in the big house Bell,” he says hysterically, “bet you’ll meet all sorts of your mom’s friend’s there.”

 

Bellamy doesn’t even register clicking off the safety on his gun.

 

“We don’t have time for this Bellamy,” Miller growls, “put down the gun.”

 

He's right, they don't have even if shooting Murphy is the most tempting idea Bellamy's ever had. He puts it down, gears already whirring away in his head, they have three minutes tops. They’ll have to go out the employee entrance, which is down the hall and to the right if he remembers the blueprints correctly.  The money Reyes grabbed from the till while Miller was tying up Greg is still sitting in a plastic bag on the counter. They can grab that and if they hurry a couple of the safety deposit boxes.

 

“Princess,” Bellamy spits out, “can you get your friend out of here.”

 

She doesn’t even bristle at the nickname, shoulders still set and focused even after tying together Reyes’s leg with a department store button up. Which Bellamy can respect, even if she’s the type of person who commits federal crimes in casual wear. 

 

“Clarke’s got me,” Reyes seethes through gritted teeth, “my woman’s a doctor.”

 

Griffin, Clarke Griffin apparently, rolls her eyes in response. 

 

“I can get her to the door,” she says,  “but Raven’s supposed to be our driver. And someone has to keep pressure on her leg.”

 

“Right,” Bellamy answers,  “well a position in our vehicle just conveniently opened up if you want to catch a lift.”

 

And look, Bellamy doesn’t like the idea of prolonging his contact with this menace of a woman either, but he’s never been the person to leave people behind, definitely not girls who get shot because of his fucking men. And, as the stiffness in Griffin’s jaw seems to suggest she realizes,  they don’t have a whole lot of other options. 

 

“Right,” she nods, “We’ll have to go out the back. Down the hall on the right.”

 

“Get her down there, we’ll hit the deposit boxes and meet you in a minute.” Griffin gets Reyes up to her feet, which a lot of muted swearing from Reyes and patient murmuring from Griffin. Bedside manner probably. Christ. That’s why her eyebrows were so judgey. She’s a doctor. A bank robbing doctor. 

 

“Miller, grab the cash from the till, I’m hitting the boxes.”

 

“What about Murphy?” Miller asks warily.

 

“Yeah, Bell,” Murphy croaks, “what about me?”

 

Bellamy shoots him in the leg. 

 

He was right. It does make him feel better.


End file.
